


Haunted - OR - The Definition of Penance

by Erukai



Series: United Comics Universe [4]
Category: DCU (Comics), Hellboy (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Literary References & Allusions, Origin Story, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erukai/pseuds/Erukai
Summary: A garden. A listless king. A bounty hunter. Haiku. An oak tree. A homestead. An "investigation." A successful rescue. An all-time kiss. Two families. A tough decision. A portent. An orchard. A clandestine meeting. Stealing from your boss. Immediate retribution. Two become Three. A collect call to the Darkest Void. A vow. Assorted prizes. A vision of the future. An uneasy alliance. A dive bar restroom. Art appreciation. A surprise. A punk band. A family visit. A promise.
Relationships: Carter Slade/Katherine Manser
Series: United Comics Universe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664020





	Haunted - OR - The Definition of Penance

In the exact center of Desolation, a garden stood and was, much like its tender, quite full of itself. Nothing grew there that was not the epitome of beauty, even if it lacked any real function besides, and the forms its blooms took were always perfectly proportioned, colored, partitioned; perfectly perfect in every way.

The stone path which wound through the garden and to the citadel at its exact center was likewise quite smug, as far as stone can be, and although it was, in essence and appearance, alabaster, it did not behave as such. Footing was always sure upon the stones and never left any trace of its presence. The stone was unmarred by any hint of soil which, itself, only existed within the garden because gardens _need_ soil; if its tender, its creator, could have figured out a way to do away with the whole dirty business, he would have.

The citadel which stood in the exact center of the garden shone. It was not that it was made of any reflective material which would intensify the already-intense, oppressive sunlight of the Desolation; it shone because it _was_ Shine. It was Light. It was, in essence and reality, pure, white Light. In fact, the sun which hung over the Desolation was, in reality, a prop: the Citadel was the true source of all light in the Desolation. Its long rays stretched immeasurably in all directions, winding around all obstacles, and could be felt no matter where anyone stood, no matter how shady. It was widely believed that being anywhere the light touched meant that you were being watched by him, but this was not quite true; he could probably have seen anyone from his Citadel, but he had not quite worked out the more complicated bits of Omniscience, yet.

_Yet_.

In the exact center of the citadel sat a library and it was in this library that its master laid like water, splayed across every curvature of the chaise. He laid there like light laying across shadow, face hidden behind the book he had just dropped on it.

“ ** _UGH!_** ” he screamed, kicking his feet, “I’m _bored_!”

In spite of the abundance of courtiers, no voice rose to answer his own.

He puffed out his cheeks, kicked aside his train, and sat up, glaring at the assemblage around him.

Like the citadel was the true source of light in the Desolation, his face was the true source of Beauty, though that influence spread far beyond the Desolation’s petty borders. All beauty, regardless of the form it took, was a mere dilution of his Beauty.

And he knew how to make the beauteous Terrible.

“I said, ‘I’m bored!’”

“ _Hmm_ ,” buzzed the chief courtier.

His expression soured while simultaneously softening. If all that he was going to get for all of his effort was a lukewarm “ _hmm_ ,” then it would be better he not do anything at all. Instead, he sighed and fell back upon the chaise, this time folding out into a more perfectly pitiable position.

“It really is the worst thing, boredom. We were never bored before, were we? No, no, because _before_ we had _vision_. We could not _know_ all, but at least we could _peek_.” He rolled onto his side. “Now? Now we’re stuck _waiting_. You know, that’s perhaps the worst punishment He concocted for us, isn’t it? Waiting. Putting us all on equal footing. Have to wait just like the rest of them. No, no, it’s _worse_ for us, isn’t it? Because we have to wait for _them_ to come up with something interesting first, don’t we? Ugh!”

He slammed his head, hard, against the pillow. Gently, he plucked the book back up from where he had discarded it and held it up to his nose, eyes scanning the lines with the considerable effort it took not to just read the whole thing in the span of a second.

“I guess,” he conceded, “This thing about the alphabet is pretty hilarious, though, even if I can’t quite work out what the big ‘Mystery’ is supposed to be…”

“ _Hmm_ ,” the chief courtier buzzed.

The door to the library dimmed, allowing the figure to step over the threshold. They were not dressed like the other courtiers, and in spite of their appearance, they gave off no discernible heat; this was only due to the context as a match is hardly noticeable in the middle of a forest fire.

They bowed, though their flaming head remained oriented exactly as it had been before.

“ _Morningstar, my liege._ _My quarry has been captured. Your judgment awaits_.”

The book slammed shut as Morningstar unfolded himself upright, scrunching his face into a belabored smirk.

“Zarathos,” he cooed, “When are you going to stop this petty display and speak to me properly, _hmm_? Verse may be your right, but not like _this_.”

“ _My voice is my own. I use it to my own ends. It won’t be silenced_.”

Morningstar let out a deep and drawn-out sigh. Something about the young upstart just plainly rubbed him the wrong way; unfortunately, there was little he could actually do about it. Not without another war, at least.

“Very well, very well, keep your little _amusements_. It’s no harm to me. Bring him in, then.”

Zarathos bowed again. While their back was bent, they unfolded their fingers, using these to weave burning chains from thin air. They pulled them taut, dragging the great weight along the citadel floor. The chains jangled as their quarry attempted another fruitless escape, a muffled yelp echoing out in response.

Larger than any of the others assembled in the library, the wolf was dragged across the threshold, the thorny, burning chains leaving deep wounds in its hide. The chains were wrapped three times around its muzzle, as well as the head of the snake which served as its tail, and although its fury was almost palpable, its eyes were filled with nothing but sorrow.

“Oh, Amon,” Morningstar sighed, “Whatever am I to do with you?”

Zarathos let the chains slip from their hands, the links closest to them dissolving into dense fog while those wrapped around Amon remained. With one last bow, they took their leave of the library, leaving the wolf to squirm anew as he struggled for freedom and revenge.

Morningstar’s eyes never left Zarathos, even hours after the latter had left the citadel in search of his next quarry. Morningstar had not yet figured out the trickier bits of Omniscience, but he could still see anyone from his citadel.

“You know,” he said to his courtiers later when Amon was being dealt with by the people he had to deal with such things, “I may no longer be able to peek like I used to, but I still have my instincts. And I just know that that one is going to be a nuisance…”

“ _Hmm_.”

* * *

In the exact center of the Montana Territory, situated fairly close to quite a lot of desolation, a town stood and was, much like its citizens, surprisingly thriving. Its erectors called it Wonderment and they had seen fit to plant, in the exact center of their town, an oak tree which now stood, big and tall and strong and proud. As the oak tree stood in the exact center of Wonderment town square, this meant that it was also situated in the exact center of the crossroads that divided the town.

Although his homestead was not situated in the exact center of town, or even anywhere very close to it, Carter Slade was always acutely aware of the big oak tree and could almost see it, even if only in his mind’s eye, no matter where he stood.

He stood in the middle of the paddock, sighing as he wiped the sweat from his brow before he went back to brushing the dust, mites, and gnats from his mule’s gray hide. Lovingly, he patted her flank as he whispered soft assurances to her, her tail flicking anxiously.

“There, there… It’s all right…”

Flies buzzed and gnawed about his ears, but Carter kept his focus on the work, even as he heard the footsteps coming up the path. The boots were heavy, the steps plodding; he couldn’t have been drunk already, could he?

Carter shook his head, a smile now stretched across his lips.

“Sheriff,” he said, “What can I do for you on this most-blessed day?”

The Sheriff spat muddy skoal onto the ground, missing Carter’s own boots by inches.

“Makin’ inquiries. That means ‘askin’ questions.’ Been some suspicious folks hereabouts these past few nights.”

“Oh?” Carter asked, never once taking his eyes from his mule’s side. “Well, sir, I haven’t seen anythin’ suspicious, myself. Then again, I am situated all the way out here all by my lonesome, so I suppose I wouldn’t be inclined to seein’ much, anyway.”

“That right?”

_Hwwwwwk-PTOO_

“The way I hear tell it, these suspicious folks been seen ‘round here or thereabouts. Outskirts of town. Makin’ some of our good people mighty frightened. Now, I don’t ‘spose they’re any relation of yours: they’re red. Still, I need to be makin’ my inquiries, and it would be mighty helpful of you, son, if you could look me in the eye and if you could then show me about the place.”

Carter’s body slowed by degrees. His mule had been thoroughly brushed to completion minutes ago, but he had kept up the routine as a convenient cover. Now, he had no other choice. Gradually, he placed the brush into the bucket, taking great care to appear as calm as he possibly could, before he gave the mule another loving pat and turned on his heel.

Sheriff Manser’s bleary eyes met his.

“Now, you do know that harborin’ an Indian in Wonderment is a crime, don’tcha, son?”

“Yessir.”

“And you also know that lyin’ to an officer of the law in the course of his duties is _also_ a criminal offense, right?”

“Yessir.”

The Sheriff gave Carter another appraising gaze, looking to him like a hawk who was trying to figure out what exactly he was getting out of tolerating the mouse.

He spat again, this time hitting Carter’s boots dead-center.

“…alright, then,” he managed finally, his mind apparently made up for the present. He puffed out his gut and looped his thumbs into his gun-belt, sniffing loudly. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. I ain’t here for the scenery.”

“Yessir.”

Carter locked the paddock before the pair of them walked up the remaining length of his homestead. First, Carter led the sheriff up to the porch, pausing only to fan himself with his hat.

“ _Woof_ it’s a scorcher today, ain’t it, sheriff?”

Sheriff Manser only grunted in acknowledgment.

“You live up here alone, boy?”

“Oh, nossir. Why, I’ve got Mary Louise with me, sir.”

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at the mule in the paddock, who snorted derisively in response; she was a smart mule, after all.

“Your ass don’t count,”

“Yessir.”

The door creaked piteously as it swung on its hinges. Sheriff Manser stepped over the threshold, his eyes scanning every bare inch of the place. The home was modest and signs of Carter’s handiwork could be seen in every piece of furniture; half the homes in Wonderment could boast the same as they were unlikely to find such skilled craftsmanship for another hundred miles. With his boot, the sheriff lifted up a woolen blanket before he kicked aside a chair, bending at the waist so that he could get a better look at the floor. All the while, his hand never strayed far from his holster.

Carter kept to the side.

He tried to tally out his luck to see if he would be fortunate enough to have his home intact and no extra work awaiting him once the sheriff was done with the place; no matter how he counted, he always came up short. His body tensed in the practiced way of someone who has had to survive on projecting an air of calm; after all, a tense body, especially a visible one, is one preparing to attack. So, instead, he just stood there on the outskirts of the destruction unfolding before him, looking rather relaxed but deferent, his hands _always_ plainly visible.

Eventually, he spoke, just as Sheriff Manser was stabbing into a cushion.

“Lemonade, sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you like some lemonade, sir. I do believe I have some all ready for you, sir. Sweet as the day is long.”

The sheriff was visibly tense.

“…that’d be fine, boy.”

Carter bowed his head before retiring to the kitchenette and pouring out a liberal glass of lemonade. From here, he could see his garden just out the window, and just beyond that the modest-sized barn that he had built. The sheriff must have noticed this as well as Carter could now hear him walking up behind, could feel the sheriff’s hot breath on the back of his neck.

“What’s in that there barn?”

“Oh, nothin’ much, sir. Just a few odds and ends to help me get through the days, sir, plus my onions and other vittles. More of a larder than a proper barn, sir. You’re free to poke around it if you want to, sir.”

Carter could hear the sheriff’s Colt straining against its leather cage.

“I might just do that, so—”

“ ** _DADDY!_** ”

The voice broke both men from their respective trains of thought, their heads turning together toward the front door.

Bursting over the threshold now, auburn tresses all coming undone, came the sheriff’s daughter, the edges of her skirts stained from dust.

“Cinnamon!” Sheriff Manser called, his entire demeanor having changed in an instant. He scooped his daughter up as best he could, given their respective ages and heights, and planted a wet, fat kiss on her cheek. “Sugar, darlin’, what’re you doin’ here? I’m in the middle of investigatin’, Cinnamon.”

“Oh, daddy!” she replied in a huff, smacking him on the chest, “You forgot, didn’t you? You promised to give the children a show, today!”

“Aw, _shit_!” he cursed, palm to his temple, “I did, Cinnamon, sugar. W-Well I’ll just finish up with my inquiries, and then I’ll be right over faster’n lightnin’.”

This answer evidently did not please his daughter and the sheriff sweated more as she placed her hands on her hips. She turned her attempted to Carter, standing in the doorway to his kitchen.

“Mister Slade.”

He bowed his head, placing his hat over his heart.

“How do you do, Miss Katherine?”

“Did you do whatever it is my daddy’s accusing you of, Mister Slade?”

“Now, hold up a min—”

Katherine silenced her father with a single raised hand.

“Did you do it, Mister Slade?”

“Oh. No, Miss Katherine.”

She turned her fearsome gaze back to her father.

“Satisfied?”

“Not really, no.”

“Tough,” she spat, “Now, you made a promise and are making a whole schoolhouse full of children cry, so now _get_!”

To further demonstrate the futility of resisting, she pointing her finger back in the direction of the schoolhouse and kept her gaze level with her father’s own, preventing him from finding a way of wiggling out again. Frowning deeply, he shot a wicked glance at Carter before he marched out the door, grumbling under his breath all the way down the drive.

Katherine watched from the doorstep until her father was completely out of sight.

Carter was already there, waiting with open arms as soon as she turned around. She wrapped her arms tight about his shoulders as they both leaned into the kiss, muscles tensing and relaxing and tensing again as their hands desperately, hungrily explored each other’s bodies. She laughed wickedly into the kiss.

“That…” Carter breathed at last, “Was far too close.”

“Sorry it took me so long. I ran over as soon as I heard daddy was coming to bother you.”

“Oh, he did more than that…” Carter wryly said, gesturing towards the broken furniture. She frowned, deeply.

“I’m sorry about that.”

He smiled, caressing her chin between thumb and forefinger.

“It’s okay. I can fix that.”

They shared another kiss before they both returned to their senses. Together, they scrambled into the kitchen and, together, they lifted up the ice box and set it aside. From there, it was an easy enough matter of lifting up the loose floorboards and letting light back into the dugout below.

“It’s alright,” Carter declared with a smile, “They’re gone now.”

Four grateful pairs of eyes—two men, a woman, and a small, big-eyed child—stared up at them from the alcove and, together, Carter and Katherine helped them out of the hole, taking great care not to further injure the younger man’s leg. He winced in pain, still, but nodded in gratitude as they set him down upon a comparatively-intact chair.

Katherine rustled around in her skirts.

“I got the herbs you asked for,” she said, producing a bundle of green and handing them over to the older man.

Ho3o’ Ceenisi’ took the herbs with a deep smile, patting Katherine’s hand as he took them.

“Thank you,” he croaked before, with Carter’s aid, he went into the kitchen and began preparing the poultices to help with his son’s leg. Katherine remained in the living room as Biikoo’usei gathered cushions and laid them under Hiino’eihiiho’’s head and leg, their child toddling about on the floor. Their big, searching eyes stared up at Katherine, who stooped down and smiled at them sweetly, holding out a finger; the toddler gripped it in one strong hand, causing a sharp pain to cut clean through Katherine’s heart.

«I don’t trust the way she’s looking at them,» Hiino’eihiiho said, glancing between Katherine and his wife. The two of them conversed a little more in Atsina before Biikoo’usei, rolling her eyes, turned to Katherine, a weary look on her face.

“You’re not going to steal them, are you?”

Katherine blinked, bewildered, as the small child tried desperately to scramble into her arms. Realization dawned and, cheeks flushed, she scowled.

“Oh!” she said, trying hard to distance herself now from the toddler who, not understanding, persisted with its attempts at getting held, “Oh, heavens, no! I wouldn’t—I’m so sorry!”

Biikoo’usei shook her head.

“You didn’t seem the type. But we have to be wary. You understand?”

Katherine nodded, soberly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Now, go on. Pick them up. They obviously need play and want _your_ attention.”

The toddler cooed in delight as they were suddenly unbound by the restraints of gravity. As a reward, they spat a bubble of spit directly into Katherine’s face, eliciting a chuckle from Biikoo’usei and even a brief chortle from her husband, in spite of his best efforts to pass it off as merely a cough. She kissed his forehead before she went about gathering more supplies. Katherine pursed her lips but took to the prize with good spirits, even threatening the child with a spit bubble of her own.

Carter’s laugh brought her back to reality, coloring her face as bright as her hair and causing the toddler to squeal with laughter as they quickly fell through the air before being bounced up again; Katherine shot an apologetic look toward the child’s parents before she sourly turned her face up at Carter.

He doffed his hat again.

“My apologies, Miss Katherine. I meant no offense. Just couldn’t decide which of the two of you looked more innocent.”

“I will have you know, Mister Slade, that I am _very_ knowledgeable of the world and all its dealings, thank you very much.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Carter chuckled, eyes soft. At that look, she couldn’t help but soften her own expression toward him.

«Please not in front of me…» Hiino’eihiiho groaned. He winced and cried out in pain as his wife smacked him hard across the shoulder. He rubbed it, pouting, as Ho3o’ Ceenisi’ returned from the kitchen.

“I see I’ll be needing more of this,” he chuckled at the sight before he knelt down beside his son and went to work. With Biikoo’usei’s help, Carter started a fire and began to boil some water and some coffee, taking the former off the flame after only a minute and setting it aside for Ho3o’ Ceenisi’’s use. The old man nodded in thanks, applying his poultices with care and muttering soft words and prayers over Hiino’eihiiho. Coffee was poured and doled out and, now and again, Carter excused himself to tend to his homestead, returning each time with some new flower he picked for Katherine, or some more fresh herbs for Ho3o’ Ceenisi’, or onions for the supper, or some additional scrap of blanket or clothing that could be used for Hiino’eihiiho’s benefit. He scratched at the back of his head, scowling; he did not need an expert’s eyes to know that the wound had become infected, which meant that he would have to provide them shelter for at least another couple of days. He had not relished the idea of sending them on their way before, especially not when their most likely recourse would be Fort Browning, but he was also acutely aware, as always, of the danger he was putting himself in by harboring them; the old, strong oak tree loomed in the background of his mind.

He put a fresh pot to boil.

“I’ll prepare my room for y’all,” he announced, stepping away from the fire, “And gather what extra blankets and linens I have. It’ll be mighty uncomfortable fitting three people on that bed, but it’s better than the dirt.” He flashed them a smile as he left for the work.

“But, Carter,” Katherine began, following him, “What about my daddy? We both know he’ll be back, and if he finds them…”

“I know. I know, Katie, but I can’t just turn them out, not when he’s like this. ‘Sides, I think I bought us a little time. Your father thinks I’m hiding something in the barn, and so long as he looks there and finds nothing, we’ll be okay.”

“But—” he added, opening the door to his room and retrieving his Henry file, “—there’s been coyotes about, and worse. Now, a man can’t be blamed for protecting his life and property, can he?” He gave her one of his usual devil-may-care smiles, contrasted as sharply as they were by the kind sadness in his eyes. She smiled somberly, kissing his gently on the cheek. “I’ll be standing watch. And don’t you worry: if nothing else, I’ve got Mary Louise to protect me, and she’s the meanest creature God ever saw fit to bless the Earth with.”

Katherine laughed a little at this before embracing him.

“I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you, Carter Slade.”

“Oh, you’d just go right on living, Miss Katherine Manser. And do it well, too, I bet.”

“No,” she sighed into his chest, closing her eyes, “No. No matter what happens to my body, I would surely be dead along with you, Carter Slade. And I’d be happy for it, too. How can anyone live a life without sunshine?”

Neither Carter nor Katherine heard what he had to say, but, just barely audible to them both, was the sound of another slap and groan from Hiino’eihiiho.

“I’ll write to a friend of mine in the next county,” Katherine said, stroking the back of Carter’s head, “Send it express. Blaine will be able to smuggle them out, no problem.”

“I’m obliged to you, Katherine. I’ll be ready when the time comes.”

“You had better be, Carter Slade. I’ll call on y’all first thing in the morning,” Katherine said, gathering her things and bidding them all farewell. She stopped on the porch, gazing down the garden path and out towards the rest of Wonderment. Perhaps it had just been a trick of the light, but she could have sworn that, from right where she stood, that old oak tree in the center of town was not only visible, but fast approaching.

* * *

In the exact center of the wood, its master stood by the riverbank, studying the trees. When he had been given charge of them, he hadn’t given them much thought; after all, if their suffering was done automatically, what care did he need take? And yet now he felt a sort of fondness for them that he could not quite explain; nor was he anxious to share these feelings with anyone else.

He cupped one ruby bloom gently in his hand, admiring it.

The trees had never before borne anything like this, not before his care, and he suspected that they never again would, once he moved on to bigger and better things.

This kind of thought gave him pause. It was vexing, because, without question, he _wanted_ to move on to bigger and better things. And yet, there was something resembling joy to be found in this labor he had taken upon himself, and in the literal fruits of it; would he miss it when it was gone?

He frankly didn’t know.

Gingerly, he snipped the bloom at the stem and dabbed away the blood.

Regardless of how much pride he felt in this accomplishment, it wouldn’t do him any good for it to be _known_. The tree gave out only a minor quiver at the wound, which was already closing by the time he removed the cloth. With closed eyes, he breathed deeply the flower’s perfume; then, with far less care than he had given every other step of the process, he crushed it into petals and then scattered these haphazardly into the Phlegethon where they burned to cinders in moments.

He was on the third dozenth bloom when he heard the sound, like lightning striking in reverse. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was standing in a blighted wasteland amidst an orchard of dead trees on the banks of a river of boiling blood, he might have also noticed the distinct smell of ozone. Regardless, he knew who it was all the same. With a wave of his hand, the remaining flowers all disappeared at-once, so that when he turned to meet his guest the trees were as bare as they rightfully should have been.

“Count Mephistopheles,” he said with a shallow bow.

“I truly love what you’ve done with the place…” Mephistopheles trilled. His cape was draped over one arm, an affect he had apparently picked up from some mortal monarch, and he looked down his nose at everything. “Very… _chic_ …”

Mephistopheles’ airs disappeared as, with a smirk, he threw open his arms wide, embracing his friend with free laughter.

“My dear Trigon, it has been far too long…”

Trigon heartily returned the embrace, patting his comrade twice upon the back. He kept an arm wrapped around Mephistopheles’ shoulder as the two of them began to walk through the orchard.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, you see, Trigon, I recently came into possession of something…rather interesting… A rare volume which just so happened to be sitting, quite in the open, in my patron’s library…”

“You don’t mean—”

Mephistopheles held a conspiratorial finger to his lips, grinning widely.

“Now, this particular book details certain…rites and rituals which I think might be rather _useful_ to us, if you catch my meaning… The trouble is, the instructions, themselves, won’t translate, and they’re written in Lemurian…”

Although he did not quite know what it was, yet, Trigon was well-aware that his friend would not risk meeting as openly as this without more than that. He stopped them both, crossing his arms and looking at him squarely in the eyes; this was no mean feat as Mephistopheles was the type to always try to slither out of everything, including eye contact.

For his own part, he pretended not to notice, his own eyes instead looking admiringly down the rows of trees and at the harpies which were busily harassing one at-random.

“I would imagine that Azazel keeps a record of every suicide in your orchard…”

Ah.

There it was.

“I won’t be able to look at it for long, you know,” Trigon snorted.

“Surely, there can’t be _that_ many…” His grin curled up even more. “Besides, I am… certain that the Master of the House of Blood is known for his…leniency…”

Trigon snorted again.

Mephistopheles was the kind of devil that always brought trouble, even upon his own kind, and especially upon his allies. The trouble was, he never bothered himself with anything petty, which meant that whatever he was up to, it had to be good.

With a heavy sigh, Trigon reached out a hand, plucking a spark of fire from the air. His fingers closed around the flame, pulling it into a thin line. This spread in front of them, breaking apart into a vast array of smoldering names which blared past their vision. Fortunately for them both, the list had been organized chronologically, which meant that their search was not an extensive one.

And yet it was not short enough.

He appeared astride a shadow which might have been a horse, or a tiger, or some imaginary animal altogether. His hands clenched tighter around the reins as he regarded the two devils standing before him, the flames wreathing his head shifting from red to blue to green to black.

“ _Folly, Lord Trigon. Azazel does not forgive. Remember this well._ ”

His steed snorted out a plume of white flame, nickering as it shook. The ground beneath them rumbled, and a cold chill ran through Trigon’s heart. Involuntarily, he winced, teeth bared in a snarl.

Quickly, both horse and rider turned their attention to the other devil before them.

“ _Mephistopheles. Though bold, your crime is worse yet. Return what you stole._ ”

Chains snaked around Zarathos’ arms, quivering with excitement, barbed ends glowing in the firelight. Mephistopheles, visibly nonplussed, reached into his robes and produced a small book, bound entirely in light.

“Oh…This…” he droned, handing it forward with a flourish, “A mistake, I assure you…”

His smirk cracked just a fraction as the chains shot forward, striking as quick as cobras as they latched onto his arm. Their barbed ends dug into Mephistopheles flesh which began to sear and smoke, cold, hellish iron working its magic. A few beads of sweat appeared on his temple as he attempted to pull himself free only for the chains to dig in deeper. Black blood, thick and steaming, fell to the ground below, turning the red dust to glass.

“ _A mistake, indeed. Thinking yourself his equal. What pit awaits **you**_?”

When this last was spoken, its words leaden in his mind, Mephistopheles collapsed to his knees, his veneer completely shattered, replaced by a contemptuous, pained snarl as he bit back his screams of agony. Arm held aloft by the chains, he pointed a finger to Zarathos and spat.

“I will remember this, rider…”

Zarathos remained as expressionless as always, though his flames, now mauve, flickered with what might have been amusement.

“ _See to it you do. Your lords are now satisfied. Tomorrow, who knows?_ ”

The chains slithered back from whence they came, leaving Mephistopheles’ arm blackened and withered. Although he had come in silence, Zarathos departed in smoke and thunder, galloping across the blighted wastes and disappearing beyond the dunes where fire fell like rain. Trigon kept his eyes upon the rider and did not look away even as he crossed the horizon; it did not pay to be reckless.

Mephistopheles cursed.

“He cost me an arm…” he spat, struggling to his feet.

“You’ll live. We were lucky to have caught him in a good mood.”

Mephistopheles scowled at the comment. He looked down at his blighted arm, wincing as he attempted to move his fingers; he managed to faintly bend his joints before the white-hot pain forced him to stop.

Rumbling laughter buzzed behind them both.

Trigon managed a faint smile.

“Enjoy the show, Azzael?”

Clouds of bloated, bulbous flies coalesced into the shape of a devil, their bodies writhing and wriggling as their flesh began to melt and merge.

Count Azzael, Lord of the Styx, smiled rakishly at his two compatriots.

“What can I s-s-s-say? That was-s-s-s funny.”

Mephistopheles was not amused.

He let out a groaning huff of air before, slicking his hair back with his one remaining good hand, he regained his composure and straightened out his spine. Where before his face had been alight with aloof amusement, now it was darkened with intensity as he stared at his two co-conspirators, bringing them immediately to attention.

“If you are quite done…” He cleared his throat. “I would rather make my sacrifice worth it…” He drew his cape over his withered arm and then gestured for Trigon to take the lead. With furrowed brow, he led them through the orchard, taking careful, even steps and always keeping a pair of eyes to the horizon, just in case the rider had decided he had been too generous. The precaution made the trip, already beset by the confounding and impossible geometry of the place, doubly long; Azzael continued to buzz and snicker behind Mephistopheles’ back.

The tree they eventually arrived at was gnarled and withered, even moreso than the trees surrounding it, and jutted at odd angles, much like a body broken by pavement.

Trigon held out an arm, stopping Mephistopheles’ advance.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. You’ve already lost—”

“And how much more do we stand to lose if we fail, hmm…? There was always going to be a price to be paid…” He brushed Trigon aside, stepping forward. He reached a hand out and snapped a lengthy branch from the boughs. Blood gushed from the wound and the tree let out a cracked, airy scream. “Regimes rise and fall in blood, after all… I would think you would be the expert on that, Trigon…”

“ _What…What do you want of me?_ ” the tree asked in a pitiably frail voice. Mephistopheles seized it by the trunk, digging his claws into the bark so that blood began to pool out from between his fingers. Azzael stood in silent amusement; it wasn’t often that he saw his “friend” so fiery.

“You lived in the last days of Mu… You were a priest… A priest to a very powerful and very old god… What we want is your voice…”

With a great bellowing from the tree, Mephistopheles sank his arm up to the elbow into the bark, until the blood began to turn to pus and then to ichor and then, at last, as Mephistopheles’ own eyes began to shine just the same, into pure, liquid light. The branches broke and spread apart as hands raised to the sky in agonizing ecstasy, pillars of light shooting from its fingertips, and tree and Mephistopheles spoke as one.

“ ** _Iä! Shuma-Gorath!_** ”

At once, the light, somehow taking on an oily sheen, began to change, turning from pure and merciless white into a thousand different shades and hues all flowing into each other, each somehow coexisting in perfect harmony, though they shared the same space. Mephistopheles, body wracked with further pain, removed himself from the tree, doubling back so that he stood with his fellows, bathed in the strange, intensifying light; the color seemed to paint their world entire, replacing the light itself so that all things were the color and the color was all things. Azzael’s smile dropped and Trigon shielded his four eyes and Mephistopheles, although at first stricken with horror, slowly began to grin wider and wider.

The color pulsed and pulsed again as the tree warped, its gnarled limbs cracking as they moved, so that in the space between the branches a picture slowly formed. A great, terrible goat stared down at them, horns stretching into the firmament, and when they looked upon it, it seemed to be made of the very absence of light and color.

The Color, and the Absence, pulsed, and in the pulsations, they seemed to vibrate the pillars of creation so that a voice could be heard, at once mountainous and booming and also sonorous and soft.

What do you want, children?

The voice brought all three down to their knees, eyes crying tears which were not wholly their own. Only Mephistopheles remained staring at the Great, Black Goat before them, Trigon and Azzael now on their hands as well.

“You honor us with this audience, Shuma-Gorath…”

Enough. What do you want?

The tears had begun to change, much as the blood had before, pools of color forming into viscous puddles at their hands.

“Freedom… We want freedom from this doomed existence… We want the freedom to shape our destinies by our own will… We humbly ask that you grant us these boons…”

A pulse of color washed over them all, forcing Mephistopheles down onto his elbows, a manic smile upon his face.

Do you pledge yourselves to me?

“Yes…”

All of you?

“ _Yes_ …”

Willingly?

Mephistopheles turned and looked at his compatriots. All three exchanged glances, vision blurred by the tears streaming from their eyes. Trigon stared at his hands and where the tears touched their skin; reality seemed to unspool wherever the tears touched. This was a power he could never achieve, alone, and one that he would never fully comprehend.

Of course he was willing.

A wide, toothy grin stretched across his lips, as it did across Azzael’s as well. As they spoke, all three seemed to glow from within, color escaping from their mouths and from their eyes.

“We swear!”

The Color pulsed with wry amusement.

Good.

The tears immediately dried and the three devils collapsed upon the sand, panting as though they had been deprived of air for so long. They drank in deep lungfuls and sighed, their bodies quivering. When they opened their eyes to look at each other, each of them could see the color still reflected in their fellow’s eyes, swirling just behind, as though alight from within. The landscape had reverted back to its usual self, though the tree which they had used as a conduit was no longer standing; it lay, split down the middle as though struck with a thunderbolt, and slowly rotted into putrescent goo and ash.

You will also grant me Freedom.

The Color seemed to pulse within their very skulls now.

To that end, I give you these three boons. With them, you shall free me and my children. With them, you shall work my wonders.

Bubbling up from the goo that had been the tree came three objects of varying size. The first was small, barely larger than a brooch, a metal thing shaped roughly into the image of a pair of sharp wings in flight. The second was smaller, still, barely large enough to fit upon a fingertip, and seemed to be nothing more than a single mote of undying flame. The last was largest. It appeared to be made of stone and, although they were now cooling and disappearing from sight, all about it inscriptions glowed in dozens of languages, glowing with that same color. Sitting in the muck was a colossal fist of stone, and they could all make out only a single word before the text vanished: “doom.”

Go. Use them as you will.

The voice faded into silence. It was several moments before any of them felt strong enough to stand again and, even then, something stayed their feet before they were all standing together.

Trigon exchanged a look with them both.

“I suppose…” he began, scratching at his chin, “That the…glove? Hand? Is obvious. To replace your damaged one, Mephistopheles.”

“No…” He held up the withered thing. “Not unless I’m to walk around with two right arms…”

They all nodded in agreement, caution and fear still staying their feet.

Eventually, Mephistopheles took the first step forward.

“I do suppose, however, that this one is quite fitting… Me being a lord of the House of Light, after all…”

With no small amount of trepidation, he bent down and plucked the mote of fire from the ground. It hovered just above his skin so that it passed between his fingers like a coin as he twiddled them. He smiled in genuine amusement before, something inside pulling at his strings, he opened his mouth and swallowed the fire whole.

Its light shone beneath his skin and he was perfectly still for several minutes, his chest neither rising nor falling, his hair suspended in perfect stillness. Azzael and Trigon exchanged fearful glances and didn’t move, though not from bewitchment.

“Is-s-s-s he…dead?”

“A lot of show if that’s all this was for…”

“Are you willing to ris-s-s-s-k it?”

Trigon fell silent, scowling.

When Mephistopheles moved again, they all let out a light gasp. He patted his chest, as though he, too, was in disbelief that he should still be alive. Slowly, he stood more erect, that same casual air through which he floated through life returning to him.

“Trigon…” he began, looking over his shoulder, “The Wings are yours… Azzael is going to need the Hand…”

“And how ex-x-x-x-actly do you know?”

“Because _that_ was Knowledge, pure and simple…”

When Azzael didn’t move, he found that Mephistopheles was already turned to face him. His eyes had lost any trace of pupil or iris, replaced instead by the same color and glow as the fire had possessed. Fangs flashed in his smile.

“Come now, my friend, be reasonable… Think it through… I’ve nothing to gain from lying to you… The Hand is rightfully yours, it won’t hurt you… Take it…”

Azzael grimaced. He was far less amused with all of this than he had been when they began; he was comforted, at least, by the fact that it did not feel as though he was being _compelled_ to pick it up, only pressured. Still, he eyed Mephistopheles with even more suspicion than usual.

“…fine,” he managed eventually, stooping down and snatching the fist from the ground before it had a chance to bite him or explode or whatever else it had been planning on doing. To his great surprise, it remained still and inert in his hand.

“What gives-s-s-s? I thought it would merge with me or s-s-s-something.”

“Oh, no…” Mephistopheles chuckled, “Nothing like that… But you’ll need it for later… So, find a safe hiding place for it…”

As Azzael stared down at the artifact in his hands, Mephistopheles shot out an arm to stay Trigon’s advance on the final artifact. He put a finger to his lips before he turned his attention back to their oblivious comrade.

“Now, if I’m not mistaken, it’d be best if you returned home, now, Azzael… Beelzebub will be looking for you…”

“Learn that from your magic fire, did you?”

Mephistopheles only smiled.

Azzael snorted.

“Fine. Jus-s-s-st don’t cons-s-s-spire without me, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it…”

Azzael snorted again, this time even more derisively. He vanished, hundreds of flies dropping dead to the ground.

Trigon stared at the back of Mephistopheles’ head, his expression dour.

“…we’re going to need a new Third, aren’t we?”

“Oh yes… Not right now, and not soon, but we will… And we will have to groom our dear Alichino even as Azzael lives…”

Trigon cocked his brow at the unfamiliar name, hesitant to believe they could ever benefit from adding “a clown” to their ranks; then again, he supposed, it wouldn’t be much different from their current circumstances, now would it?

“So, you _did_ lie to him.”

“Oh, oh no… No, no, no… I did not lie at all… The fist is quite harmless in his hands… Oh, no… Our compatriot is perfectly capable of weaving his own demise…” Mephistopheles turned to depart, the same smile still plastered on his face as he brushed past Trigon.

He paused by two trees.

“You’re right, you know…”

Trigon did not turn to look at him so that their backs remained facing each other.

“So… You really wouldn’t tell me if this thing will end up killing me.”

“…No…”

Trigon stood staring down at the wings gently gleaming in the light. He stood there for a while, deep in thought, Mephistopheles always standing just behind, always grinning.

“…Whatever you may be thinking, we are still equal partners in this, understood? I will not be your lackey. That wasn’t the dream.”

He turned to face Mephistopheles, anger burning in his eyes and unsurprised to find Mephistopheles had already turned to face him. The same grin was on his face though, if Trigon was not mistaken, he could see traces of sadness in the lines of Mephistopheles’ face. Trigon only grimaced harder.

“Of course…” Mephistopheles responded, bowing his head. “Partners…”

He departed soon after, disappearing in a puff of smoke and light, leaving Trigon to stare after him. A wind howled between the trees, which shivered and moaned and screamed and stilled in turn. Trigon, Lord of the Phlegethon, remained standing in contemplative silence before he slowly left the clearing behind, leaving the wings to be picked up another day; he would remember where they were.

After all: the ground had already started to bloom.

* * *

In the exact center stall of the women’s restroom of the Stone Spirit bar in Daytona Beach, Florida, Naomi Kale clapped a hand to her mouth as she desperately held onto her lunch. The person in the stall next to her seemed determined to make this as difficult as possible.

“ _Fuckin’ Christ!_ ” Naomi coughed, retreating into herself. The soles of her boots squeaked against the bowl as she tried to put as much space as possible between herself and the horror-terrors happening just next door. “What the hell _died_?!”

The subsequent bang against the stall knocked the TP from the wall; Naomi watched helplessly as it rolled several stalls away.

“Fuck you!”

Naomi kicked the stall back in response; this was dulled considerably by the pants around her ankles.

“Yeah? At least I’m not a walking biohazard!”

The two of them exchanged several more blows against their shared wall before, eventually, the other occupant left the restroom entirely; Naomi was thankful that she had not been so malicious as to leave her toilet unflushed.

Couldn’t be certain about the state of her hands, though…

Naomi sighed and sank deeper into the bowl, freckled knees rising up before her. She grimaced and stared down again at the stick she held in her other hand, giving it a few more shakes.

Still nothing.

She groaned loudly with as much self-pity as she could manage which was, quite frankly, a considerable amount. She puffed out her cheeks and started studying the graffiti scrawled all over the stall.

_Good composition_ , Naomi thought, looking at one, _Though poor brushstrokes. Seven out of ten._

_Nice use of lighting. Real solid grasp of anatomy. Nine out of ten._

_Oh, just go fuck yourself, asshole. Zero out of ten._

She uncapped her own pen and started adding her own to the tableau.

Naomi let out a small squeak of a yelp as the stall door was nearly broken down by the force of the knocking.

“Yo! Naomi, what the hell? We’re on in five!”

“Thank you, five!” she spat back mockingly, once again attempting, and failing, to kick the door in response. “I’ll be there, alright? Don’t get your balls in a twist…”

“…you don’t have the runs, do you?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tommy!”

This time, she managed to kick the door, and laughed darkly in triumph as Tommy groaned on the other side, evidently knocked back.

“Alright, alright… Jeez, you don’t have to be such a bitch…”

She mouthed along with the last few words, rolling her eyes as she did so. She let out an exasperated huff and then stared back down at the stick.

A big, bright blue plus sign stared back at her.

“…fuck.”

Naomi finished zipping up her pants as she stumbled out of the restroom in a daze. She brushed past several patrons, making her way through the crowd and to the bar, steadying herself against it.

“Bourbon. Straight.”

As the bartender began work on the order, realization dawned.

“Uh. Shit. Um. You know what? Uh. No. Can I get…uh…”

“Two Jack ‘n Cokes.”

Clegg effortlessly slid into the bar and next to her as he ordered, smiling brightly from behind his handlebar mustache.

“Hey, baby…” He kissed her neck passionately, stopping only when it became clear that her mind was elsewhere.

“Hey…” he said, his whole demeanor changing, “What’s wrong?” He took the drinks off of the bar and handed one to her. “Tommy givin’ you shit again? ‘Cause you know you can whoop his ass six ways to Sunday.”

He put the glass to his lips. In a panic, Naomi flailed and stopped him, placing her hand on top of the glass and shoving it back down.

“No! You can’t!” she yelped, eyes as wide as his now were. They stared at each other for a few moments as the gears clinked together in her brain again. “Oh. Wait. No, that doesn’t make sense… Uh…”

Clegg placed his hand to her forehead.

“You feelin’ okay? You don’t seem to have a fever…”

She batted his hand away.

“I’m fine, Clegg. It’s just…”

Her attention was drawn away by Tommy waving madly from the stage as the rest of the band filed on. Several patrons turned their heads toward her and began snickering.

“Aw, shit! Hold that thought, baby, I’ve gotta go on!”

She kissed him tenderly on the lips before she bolted through the crowd, openly shoving patrons aside as she ascended up onto the stage. She smiled sheepishly at her bandmates and flipped off the few customers who decided to heckle her as she slung her legs over the drum-set and righted everything that she knocked aside.

“We are Nightcat! Ready to lose your minds?!” she screamed into the mic.

“Hey, you’re the bitch from the bathroom…”

“Fuck you! ONE! TWO! THREE! LET’S GO!”

When the set was complete, which miraculously only featured one fistfight and three instances of a bottle being thrown at their heads, and Jackie T and Tommy went to the back to “put away the equipment” with the help of a random volunteer from the audience, Naomi made her way back to the bar and collapsed onto a stool, sighing deeply as her face pressed against a surface she would not have gotten within sixty feet of if she were both sober and fully-awake.

Clegg rubbed her back.

“Great set tonight, hon.”

“Eh, we’re shit and we like it that way,” she drooled onto the bar. Clegg wheezed out a laugh and scooted a fresh drink down to her.

“Here, babe. You earned it.”

Gladly, she took the glass and brought it to her lips.

“Wait! What’s in this?”

Clegg looked at her evenly.

“Rum and Coke…”

Her face sank and she dejectedly brought the glass back down to the countertop.

“…hold the ‘rum.’”

Naomi perked up immediately before she drained the glass in one chug. It was midway through when the penny dropped, though Clegg looked as cool and calm and collected as always. She stifled a burp as she set the glass back down; she was only partially successful.

“How— _erp_ —How’d you know?”

“Babe, somethin’ was botherin’ you. And there was only one thing I could think of that’d put you off the sauce.”

“Yeah, I have a bit of a problem…” she said, staring into the middle distance. Clegg laughed again, pounding his chest as he coughed. She stared down at her empty glass and motioned for the bartender to fill it up again. When this was done, she swirled the drink around, smiling at the bubbles fizzing and popping with each motion.

“So…” she began.

“So…”

“We’ve got stuff to talk about…”

“Yeah I suppose we do.” He made a show of taking her hand and kissing it, winking when this was done. This earned him a light punch to the shoulder, which he took with pride and a chuckle. “Only when you’re ready, though. I’m in no rush…”

She smiled at him and planted a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Speakin’ of ‘no rush,’” he said, stretching, “Looks like someone wants some merch and no one’s mannin’ the table. Don’t get up! You’ve done enough for one evenin’ and I know how to schmooze ‘em.”

“Yeah you do…” she smirked, slapping his behind as he walked past. He winced a little but laughed it off, adjusting his cap before disappearing amongst the crowd.

The glass hit the countertop with a definitive _THUD_ , far louder than it should have.

Naomi felt a chill run up her spine. Her fingers tensed instinctively.

“So…this is what you’ve been doing with your life.”

The voice was familiar, sounding like a hot, desert wind, though it was perhaps a little thinner than she remembered. She bit her lip and fought back her immediately impulses: she wanted to smash her glass against the bar and start stabbing, or otherwise to ask how the hell they found her.

But she already knew what answer awaited both.

So, she gritted her teeth and gripped the bar. She already knew the answer to the question, but they would be getting nowhere if she didn’t engage.

“What the hell do you want?”

“That’s the greeting I get? After all thi—”

“Yes. Now spill it. What. The hell. Do you want?”

The old woman’s mouth stretched into a tight, thin line of displeasure, further giving her the appearance of a snake’s dried-out corpse. Or perhaps just its shed, empty skin. She took a sip of her own drink to compose herself and then set it back down on the countertop. From where it landed, shimmer heatwaves pulsed outward until everything in the bar, save for them, was muted in tone and color and sound.

“You need to come back to us, Naomi dear. You left business unattended.”

Naomi would have rolled her eyes if she didn’t need them trained on the old woman at all times.

“So sad. That must really suck for you.”

“There _needs_ to be a Caretaker. Naomi, your father is dying.”

“I’ll send flowers.”

“You petulant, ungrateful child!”

As the old woman rounded on her, Naomi held a knife already at her throat. The blade was almost imperceptible, made entirely of the mirror-like substance that composed another plane of existence. The old woman gasped, seeing Naomi’s eyes alight with purple flame.

“You’ve been—”

“Witching it up? Yep. Full-on master of the dark arts, me. So, sorry, Nan, but you’re going to have to find a way to cope with being the Caretaker for a little while longer, ‘kay?”

Her grandmother seethed.

“You’d leave the world defenseless. For this? I’ve never seen anything so _selfish_.”

“Frankly? Yeah. Yeah, I would. I don’t give two shits about the world, but guess what? I’ve never seen anything so fucking arrogant or self-righteous as the damn order. ‘Defenseless?’ Got news for you, Nan! We’re not the only ones around! I should know, I’ve seen ‘em.”

“But we’re the only ones who—”

“’Know the truth?’ Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it all before and it’s still just bullshit. The world will be just fine without me claiming my birthright or whatever.”

Her grandmother’s eyes darted down toward her stomach.

“And what about them? Don’t they deserve a chance to know their legacy? Their real family?”

“Fuck you,” Naomi hissed. The knife was only a fraction of an inch away from her grandmother’s throat, now. A very thin line of red began to appear across her taut skin. “This baby is not going to get caught up in all of your bullshit, got it? I won’t let it happen. You can’t have ‘em!”

Naomi wavered just a little as her grandmother laughed that same lilting laugh she always did whenever Naomi said or did anything utterly and completely foolish. For a moment, her posture slackened, her childhood brain taking over, and in that moment her grandmother placed a hand upon her collarbone and shot her down the bar. She landed in a heap on the other end, coughing from the booze spilled on her hair and face. Her grandmother took slow, deliberate steps over to her before she bent down, grabbing Naomi by the chin.

“My dear child… You can’t be with them at all times. You never were that vigilant. You’ll slip up, just like always. And when you do? They’ll be gone. And maybe, just maybe, if you come to your senses? We’ll let you come back into the fold, too…”

As her grandmother left the bar, color and sound slowly seeped back into the world.

“We’ll be in touch, dear…”


End file.
